


Flowers in the Bookshop

by O Lord Damn This Alien (IneffableAlien)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Author Projecting onto Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Challenge Response, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Reads (Good Omens), Discovery, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Random & Short, Silly, Wordcount: 100-1.000, because I famously love tacky shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/O%20Lord%20Damn%20This%20Alien
Summary: Crowley uncovers an embarrassing secret Aziraphale's been hiding about his literary tastes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40





	Flowers in the Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scrumptious_Bastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrumptious_Bastard/gifts).



> From a Discord prompt about hidden bookshelves, 100-1,000 words.

You would have thought Crowley found the Golden Idol.

It was the way his body was so rigid, while the hand that cupped his face curled so tender. The way that his pupils were blown to black pools, reflecting the discovery before him. Only a true treasure hunter could appreciate how he felt now.

Of course it was a lie that Crowley did not read. He just didn’t think that seemed very becoming for a demon, or for the type of human Crowley meant to portray in everyday life. But more than that, Crowley denied his love of the occasional book because he couldn’t bear to feel the angel’s judgment come down on anything he deep down held dear.

To put it bluntly, Crowley had an abiding respect for things that were, at best, camp, and at worst … quite objectively bad. He was Team Edward. (He may or may not have been responsible for the ship name “Jakeward,” although he had huffily deleted his one and only attempt at fanfiction after it failed to garner the attention he felt it deserved.) He was awfully distraught the first time the Spice Girls broke up. If he’d still been on good (or appropriately bad, rather) terms with Hell at the time, he might have received a commendation for the 2019 _Cats._

(He wasn’t responsible for it. Only humans could pull off that level of evil. But Downstairs would have reasonably assumed.)

Crowley had long suspected something hidden in the bookshop. It wasn’t there all the time, and it wasn’t in the same spot, but every now and then he would walk into a tight little cloud of prickling not unlike the sensation of one’s foot falling asleep. It wasn’t unbearable, but he did recognize it as an extremely toned down holy pain, and if he tried to remain in it he always found himself physically pushed out and hissing. Plus it made his eyes water to look at the area.

It was an apotropaic glamour.

So whatever It was hiding, Aziraphale specifically did not want Crowley to know about It. This probably should have hurt, but Crowley had long understood the angel to have a secretive side. Furthermore, Crowley enjoyed a good mystery. So he couldn’t just let on that he knew something was strange in the shop, because then Aziraphale would panic and move It or something and then he would never determine the meaning of it all.

But now Crowley fathomed the full meaning, and it made all the sense in the world: Aziraphale was hiding an ordinary old bookshelf, and he was clearly hiding it because he was ashamed of the contents. Apparently, he had forgotten to lock the thing the last time he was in there.

It was every complete set of the V. C. Andrews collection.

Crowley reached out a pale trembling hand to stroke the spine of _Flowers in the Attic_ —the one that started it all!—and released a shuddering gasp when he realized that, in true Aziraphale fashion, _it was a flawless first edition._

“Oh, dear,” came a voice from behind him.

Crowley didn’t even turn to look at Aziraphale. “Angel,” he breathed.

“I can explain,” said Aziraphale. “Ah—we all have our guilty pleasures, have we not?”

“You have all of them,” Crowley said softly. He sounded on the verge of tears.

“Yes, well, you see, when one starts a collection—”

“Even the ones by her ghostwriter after her death,” Crowley continued, as though Aziraphale had said nothing at all.

“Well, all right, fine, if that’s how you wish to play it,” said Aziraphale tersely. “Come now, let’s get on with it then. Since you obviously intend to mock me until Kingdom—hopefully doesn’t come again …”

“What?” said Crowley, barely paying attention. “Oh, Aziraphale,” he whispered, instead of waiting for anything to be said.

“Aren’t you,” Aziraphale started cautiously—“aren’t you—going to make fun?”

Crowley spun around to face him. “Make fun?” he said in horror. “What’s funny about this?” Crowley gestured wildly at the liminal shelf. “What’s funny about, about … Cathy’s grandmother, pouring hot tar in her hair??” The fluttering of hands became more impassioned. “Or, or, Chris, desperately trying to save the twins from starving _by letting them drink his own blood??”_

Aziraphale’s ears were hot pink as he allowed Crowley to take both his hands in his own. “Well,” said Aziraphale, a smile blooming on his face, “and here I thought you didn’t read books, my dear.”

Crowley leaned in, and kissed the angel’s forehead. “That’s the rumor,” he acknowledged with a grin. “Maybe tonight, you could read to me instead.”

**Author's Note:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


End file.
